Murderers With A Conscience
by CravenJester
Summary: Live long enough in Skyrim and you'll see death. A lot of it. Some deal in it, thrive on it. Others just try to get by with as little as possible. The question then is what happens if these people are brought somewhere else, somewhere with a little more hope. Maybe, just maybe, the death can stop. Maybe they can live instead. Rated M to be safe. I don't want trouble with admins.


**Hey, so I watched The Dragon Prince, and I love Skyrim, so naturally in almost every scene I was like, "Oh, but what if," or "Hey, that could really work…" so that's kinda what I'm planning on doing with this. I want to try it anyway.**

**Ok, also I should probably explain some things before starting this. Uh, I have this theory that I heard somewhere that I really liked that I'm using for this foc that says that for every major faction or guild quest it's not necessarily the Dragonborn doing it, so I was like, well, what if all these archetypal playstyles had a sort of figurehead come so that they're all represented in this story?**

**I didn't choose other characters from Skyrim like Brynjolf or Farkas… Just sue me If you don't like that.**

**Okay, I also did some things to the magic, just some more fluid stuff, so not specific spells or anything. I just wanted everything to feel more logical and less… I dunno. Gamey. I love the game, don't get me wrong, but everything should just be a little more free flowing if they're going to interact properly with the world of The Dragon Prince.**

**Finally, I do know that I have a bunch of other stories going (like two), but bite me. I wanted to do this.**

* * *

The Dragonborn heard the greybeards' summons. It thundered through the sky like the world was calling to him, as though the mountains spoke. It had been some time since his first and last summons. A long time since the fate of the world rested on his shoulders. The hero of Skyrim moved around Breezehome, gathering what he would need for the journey ahead. It would, of course, be pointless to resist the Greybeards' summons. If not forced to go, the thought of it would bury itself in his mind. Like a tune you couldn't get out of your head. Or an axe. He strapped his sword-belt to his waist, and fastened his shoulder guard to his iron studded armor. Where did he put his helmet?

The Harbinger of the Companions barged in, roughly swinging the door, almost knocking it off its hinges. "You heard it then?" She asked, a sparkle of adventure glimmered in her eye. "This will be the makings of a great tale - mark my words!"

"I'll be sure to keep that in mind." He replied dryly. He noted the travel bags hanging off the shield-maiden's wolven armor. "I see you've invited yourself along."

"You weren't likely to," she said. "You're always going off alone, finding all the glory for yourself. This time I want in."

"Alright." He chuckled. A faint smile graced his unshaven face. He'd found his helmet.

...

The Nightingale was dreaming. She dreamt that she was drowning in the Dwemer ruin of Irkngthand. Mercer Frey was dead, and his lifeless corpse floated, blood drifting through the murky depths of the rising water like red smoke. The darkness swirled in the wet, cold torrent, and the Nightingale spun, like a dead leaf in the wind, only to realize that she wasn't drowning, there was nothing there to breathe, not even water - nothing at all but the dark. Nocturnal's voice shimmered in the void, a glimmering in the darkness. Her shape was formed, a coalescence of the night.

"It seems you've been putting my gifts to good use. Your guild has profited substantially from my providence." Her voice purred and the nothing resonated with it.

"Yeah. We even got you a statue. Don't ask me how."

Nocturnal smirked. "I have a task of you, my faithful servant. Go to High Hrothgar."

And with that, the shape of the night mistress unformed into a conspiracy of ravens that swarmed the Nightingale and ushered her into the waking world with a cold sweat on her brow and a gasp on her lips.

"Fuck."

The word faded into the soft planks of Honeyside and the sound of heavy breathing...

...

The apparition of Quaranir faded into the faint mists that permeated the Archmage's chambers. Pale ghostly light streamed through the room. Strange powers were at work again in Skyrim. The delicate truce between the Stormcloaks and Imperial legion was failing, but only the Archmage was keen enough to see it. The rest of the world teetered on the brink of war and death, and it was all that they could do to keep relationships between the college and the rest of Tamriel from boiling over into full-blown hostility. And now the Psijic monks had asked the spellcaster to go to the throat of the world and find the Greybeards in their cold keep on the mount. Morokei seemed to be grinning, as much as a mask could grin. This was bound to end in blood and ash.

The Archmage donned the silver visage. A deep breath. Perhaps a few scrolls would be in order. Potions, ingredients too… maybe an enchanting table? Too much? Maybe just the components then. There was no telling what magics were hidden at the top of the Throat of the World. All to taken advantage of in an instant. Learning was the greatest reward after all.

...

The Night Mother's voice echoed faintly through the sanctuary, but only one man could hear it.

_Come to me my listener_, echoed her withered voice along the cold stone vaults. _Come to my embrace. I must speak with you._

The Listener stopped cutting. He cleaned his knife and returned it to his kit. He could finish his study later, so long as Babette hadn't fed the remains to her frostbite spiders… although the study of a frostbite spider's victim's corpse could be fascinating…

"The Night Mother Calling?" called Nazir after him. He didn't reply. Nazir already knew the answer. Nazir muttered, "I don't know why I even bother."

The listener reached to the iron casket, and swung its doors wide to see his mother's mummified remains.

_I have a task for you, Listener_, rasped the Night Mother in a voice like leather on wood. _Go to High Hrothgar. Listen to what you can hear amongst the men whose words are power. _

The Listener was quiet. He didn't bother asking why. He knew the Night Mother had her reasons. The Night Mother knew things - things that didn't need to be questioned.

...

[A week later]

"This your first time to Ivarstead?" asked the Dragonborn. He stood on the stone bridge leading to the Seven Thousand steps, looking straight up at the peak of the mountain.

"No, no I've been here before. I had to clear out a bear problem nearby, pretty easy but the coin was alright."

"The first time I was here I found a man pretending to be a ghost in the crypts."

"Huh. You kill him?"

"Yeah, well… It couldn't be helped. He tried killing me first."

"Hm… I've wanted to make the pilgrimage for a while you know," the Harbinger said starting forward.

"Oh yeah? What kept you?" The Dragonborn followed quickly, beginning the trek up the long winding path.

"Well, I just never got around to it. Every time I thought I might there was a new contract or a problem with the Silver Hand… Just never really convenient."

"Yeah, I get that. I've climbed this mountain a lot in my time, though. It's nice when you can catch a ride on a dragon, but the walk's not too bad really. You just have to keep an eye out for frost trolls."

"Frost trolls?" the Harbinger asked excitedly. "Did you say frost trolls?"

"Yeah, I said it. One just about killed me my first time up this path. Damn three-eyed freak of nature."

"If we run into one please let me kill it! I really wanted some troll fat, but Arcadia's Cauldron didn't have any back home."

"What do you need troll fat for? You're hardly an alchemist."

"Oh. No it's not for alchemy, it turns out troll fat is surprisingly good at polishing armour and weapons."

"Huh. Never woulda thought," The Dragonborn said. "Hey, you're not gonna stop and read the tablets?"

"Nah, what's the point? It's probably just some hokey wisdom anyway. I don't need that crap. I just wanted to see Skyrim from the top of the mountain."

"Figures," said the Dragonborn.

...

The Nightingale had been following the two pilgrims for a while now, and they hadn't noticed her yet, big surprise. It had been almost a day and the sun was beginning to set as the pilgrims approached a large crevice. As they had climbed further up the steps had become more and more obscured by snow and ice, until the point where they reached a valley carved in ice just so that the travelers could remain on the path. _There comes a point_, she thought, _when you just go over the ice._

The two travelers stopped. The tall man said something to his shorter armoured companion and although the Nightingale couldn't make it out over the screaming wind she got the gist of it as the short one pulled a massive axe off her back. Really a huge heavy monster of an axe. It was a bit much. Still the pilgrim handled it with disconcerting ease. She did hear the eager, booming laugh as the pilgrim charged into the chasm, and then she heard the explosion. A giant plume of fire erupted from over the lip of the chasm and the taller pilgrim who had stayed behind sighed, massaging his eyes with his gloved fingers.

He didn't start when the Nightingale walked up next to him. "You think she'll be alright?"

"Yeah, she's fine. I'm more worried about who caused that explosion."

"Why's that?"

"She really wanted to kill that frost troll."

"Ah, right. How do you know there's someone else up here?"

"Because I don't think she even knows what magic is, let alone how to conjure that much fire. So, you gonna stop following us to High Hrothgar from the shadows and just join us already."

"Sure, why not," she said, effecting nonchalance. "How long did you know?"

"Not too long."

"So just now then?"

"Yeah, just now," he said with a smirk. "Come on, I want to make sure no one's dead."

They walked together into the crevice, coughing at the stench of burnt troll and wincing at the bellowing yell coming from the armoured figure as she smashed the handle of her axe again and again into the stationary form of a mage. He stood still, every once and a while casting a healing spell, but aside from that not moving. "Damn you!" she yelled. "I wanted that troll!"

"Are you done yet?" asked the figure calmly. Upon closer inspection his form held an almost metallic texture. Probably ironflesh, or maybe some greater spell. It was not only possible but also likely with this one.

The warrior turned to her pilgrim companion and yelled at him "look at what this jackass did! He killed that troll, AND he burned all the fat to ashes!"

"Hello, Dragonborn." The robed figure said, the voice not calm, but monotone. "I trust you found a good use for your elder scroll? I was disappointed when you removed it from our library, but I trust the need was great enough."

"Yes, well. It did help the Dawnguard find Auriel's Bow before the vampires, so I figure it worked out well enough. You can have it back, if you want. It's just a long trip is all," said the tall pilgrim.

Dragonborn? This man was the Dragonborn? He looked just normal to the Nightingale.

"You here for a reason?" he asked.

"My own" said the mage.

"Ah, come on," said the warrior. "There has to be some reason for the Arch Mage of the College of Winterhold to make pilgrimage to the home of the Greybeards."

"As much reason as the Companion's Harbinger. And one of Nocturnal's Nightingales."

The Nightingale took a step back and the Dragonborn gave her a questioning look. How the hell did that mage know? "Don't worry," said the Dragonborn. "He did that to me the first time we met too."

"Okay!" the Nightingale yelled. "I've had enough casual name drops! What in Oblivion is going on?"

"It seems," said the mage, " that some force has pulled the most powerful actors in Skyrim into one place. It could be that we all are here for the same reason, and just don't know it yet."

"But what reason is that?" asked the Harbinger.

"The answer _will_ be found at the peak," said the mage behind his stoic mask.

"Well, what are we waiting for then?" Asked the Harbinger. "Let's go already!"

"Hold your horses, friend," said the Dragonborn. "It's almost night. We should set up camp."

"Why?" asked the Nightingale. "You afraid of the dark?"

"No. Just don't want to freeze to death before we reach the Greybeards. It gets cold on these mountains at night and these canyon walls will protect us from the worst of the wind."

"Right," muttered the Nightingale. "I guess that makes sense…"

"Then it's settled, we shall camp here for the night, and proceed on to High Hrothgar in the morning as a group," the Dragonborn stated.

"A group. Yes," said the mage with a small laugh. "Perhaps a group and one more."

"Hey, you're welcome to walk alone, _Mage." _The Harbinger said the word like an insult.

"Hmm. You seek Troll fat, yes?" asked the mage. "I have some extra. You may have it. As recompense."

The Dragonborn shook his head as the Harbinger was suddenly all smiles, fawning over the mage. Offering to help set up his tent, an offer that was rejected as, after a short incantation and a flash of light, a small tent was already erected close to the cavern wall. The Dragonborn noticed the shock rune also placed at the mouth of the tent. Clever, especially with a thief in the camp. The Nightingale visibly cursed. "Hey," said the Dragonborn. "Don't even consider it. There's only one thief in this camp and we know who you are."

"Yeah, alright. I just can't help it sometimes. Itchy fingers," said the Nightingale sheepishly.

"Good. Now that that's sorted and those two are working out their arrangements, lets get to work."

"Work?" asked the Nightingale.

"Yeah. Troll's not great, but I'd rather save my travel rations. High Hrothgar's food is all pretty stale. Klimmek can't make as many deliveries as he used to." The Nightingale flinched as the Dragonborn's knife bit into the Troll's already cooked and still hot flesh.

"Gross…"

...

Starting out had been easy enough. The Dragonborn had woken once during the night at the Nightingale's scream, but when he had asked her about it in the morning before they left she'd just muttered something about bad dreams and continued tying up her camping bundle. The Dragonborn hoped that was all it was, for her sake. Still, the rest went smoothly. The Mage had refused to eat, in fact, the mage had refused to sleep too, but the Dragonborn wasn't worried. Magic would be enough sustenance for the magic wielder. Probably. Either way the mage wasn't an idiot. And, once the rest of the trek up the mountain had begun the Dragonborn couldn't help but feel more confident with three others to at his side to help with whatever trial was waiting at the end of the path. And there would be a trial, there always was. Before long they stood on the steps before the black stone castle.

"Before we go in," spoke the mage, and turned to gaze back down the path. "You should come out. If you have come here, it is for the same reason as us. I am sure of it. We should approach this together."

There was silence.

The Nightingale leaned over the Harbinger and whispered, "You think the mage's lost it?"

"Nah, he's right. I can smell the guy," she whispered back.

"Oh, great, two crazies. Wonderful"

"You think we were followed?" asked the Dragonborn.

"We were," said the mage.

"If we were followed here, we'll be followed in," said the Nightingale. "Let's just go."

"Fine," said the Dragonborn. "Before we continue, though I have brought guests here before, and I told them the same. Be polite. Be respectful. The Greybeards are men of peace and meditation. And don't steal anything." The last one was obviously meant for the Nightingale. She rubbed the back of her neck beneath her hood.

...

The Listener had been surprised by the mage's perceptive prowess, but he knew that to reveal himself would be a mistake. To give up the advantage of stealth so easily was foolish. So he watched discretely as the four travelers entered the great hall through the front doors. He would find another way. Going around the side of the stairs leading to the door, he slipped through the small dark window and into the cold hall of the Greybeards.

Men of the voice. He didn't care for their peaceful philosophy, but that much should have been obvious. Still, he respected their power and their dedication. Their deaths would be avoided if possible. Perhaps he should have entered as friend instead of intruder? No. He would not be found, so the state of his welcome was irrelevant. He crept slowly towards the center of the building, towards a large atrium, light streaming in from the ceiling.

"Arngier," he heard the one called Dragonborn call out. "It is good to see you, mentor. I have brought guests."

A man in a long grey robe bowed to the Dragonborn and said, "That much I can see, Dragonborn. It is good you have come, and although I'm sure you have many questions as to the circumstance of your summoning, I have no answers. We were simply asked by our leader to call you. We know not the cause."

"So, the trip is not over then?"

"I am afraid not, Dragonborn. You must proceed to the peak of the mountain. Our leader awaits you there."

The Nightingale shrugged tiredly.

" Come on then. Only those who travel with me can reach the peak, where Paarthurnax resides."

"Huh? Why's that?" asked the Harbinger.

"The storm that swallows the peak. Any who attempts to pass through it will die. Only I can clear it."

Hmm. That could be a problem.

"Well, then," said the mage. "Perhaps that is reason enough for our follower to show himself. If he truly seeks the same goal as us he will need you in order to progress. We all will."

The Listener considered for a moment. The mage was right. He would need to show himself to continue. He stepped out of the shadows. All heads turned to him, and the Harbinger turned to the side to spit. "Assassin," she growled.

"Please," said Arngeir. "This is a place of meditation and peace. The Greybeards will not tolerate the shedding of blood in our halls. Dragonborn, calm your friend."

"All is well," said the mage. "If the assassin had come to kill we would never have seen him."

Good, the mage understood. It was smart. The Listener almost liked it.

"Okay, then," said the Dragonborn. "I don't really like assassins, but the mage is right. There must be a reason that we're all here and you haven't acted hostilely yet. Come with us then. I will take you to the peak." He said the words with confidence, as though even if the Dark Brotherhood assassin attacked him it wouldn't matter. Maybe it wouldn't for the Hero of Skyrim. He turned one more time to Arngeir to say, "Sky Above, Voice Within."

"Sky Above, Voice Within, Dovahkiin," came the reply.

The group walked on and out the doors into the large snowy courtyard behind the keep, but there was an obvious tension. The addition of the assassin had been quite unsettling, especially this late, so the Listener followed from a safe distance. It was fine. He didn't need to be friends with the others of the group. He just needed to get up the mountain. This… Dragonborn could do that. They reached a stone gate. Beyond it was a wall of blizzard, the most violent storm that the assassin had ever seen.

"Is everyone ready?" called the Dragonborn. "Assassin, you need to get closer. And we need to trust each other, at least for now. Otherwise you will die." And with that the Dragonborn turned and shouted "LOK VAH KOOR!" The words tore into the storm, creating a tunnel of peace, the rest of the storm whipping just as harshly around it. "Come on, lets go!"

...

After a time the group had settled into a pattern. Shout away the storm, walk ahead as far as possible, wait for the Dragonborn to shout again, repeat. At least, it happened like that for a while. Until the ice wraiths.

There were a lot of them, a dozen maybe, and each struck viciously. The warriors drew their blades, the mage called forth his lightning, and the fighting commenced. It went on long enough that nobody noticed when the wind began to pick up again. Nobody noticed through the hissing and explosions of ice the whipping wind and the driving snow. That is until a gigantic ice wraith, hidden in the flurry, struck the Nightingale from the side and knocked her into the snow, the wind violently driving her towards a sheer drop.

She called out, but her voice was sucked away before anyone could hear it. She whipped out a knife and drove it into the ground, desperately clawing for a handhold amidst the snow and ice as the wind dragged her towards the edge, her cape whipping violently behind her, a mix of snow and hail physically pushing her back. Then she fell, her knife barely catching hold in a crack in the stone of the ground before tumbling over the edge of the path. She hung there, desperately clutching her blade's hilt, hoping that someone had seen her. The wind was strong, and she flapped almost like a flag. It might have been funny if she wasn't about to die. Then a hand grabbed hers - a strong hand, clad in red leather.

The assassin pulled her up from the edge, visibly shaking and straining with the effort. The Nightingale scrambled up as well, but could only stare in horror as the ice wraith approached her unlikely hero. She tried to call out and warn him, but the wind was deafening. The killer would not hear in time. She was still scrambling up as the wraith reared back to attack. "NO!" she yelled, just barely heard over the wind. The assassin turned his head, eyes widening.

Then the mage threw himself between the wraith and the struggling pair, a billowing crimson ward of fire pouring from the mage's palms and crashing into the wraith, protecting the three from the driving storm. The wraith was disintegrated in the blazing inferno coming from the mage's hands, not even bursting like its brethren.

"LOK VAH KOOR!"

The shout thundered across the sky. The storm calmed. They were all breathing heavily, the Dragonborn had a deep gash on his arm, and the Harbinger of the companions had a wide feral grin, despite the limp that she walked with.

"That was fantastic! We should do this more often," she said, nudging the Dragonborn in his uninjured arm.

"I'm sorry everyone. I was overtaken by the ice wraiths. It won't happen again. I'm just not used to travelling with such a large group."

"You should be sorry!" shouted the thief. "I could have died there!"

"We all could have," said the mage. "It would, however, be better to reach the peak where I can heal our wounds rather than waiting here and arguing. Lets move."

"Alright. Fine," grumbled the thief. This was not going the way she had expected. She had thought that maybe Nocturnal had wanted her to steal something from the Greybeards, but instead here she was, cold, shaken, and owing her miserable life to a damned Dark Brotherhood assassin.

Progress up the mountain resumed again, but at a slower pace. The group was exhausted and injured from the fight, but the storm never caused them a problem again and there were no more ice wraiths waiting in ambush, although the thief was sure she saw a small mountain goat through the snow… maybe not… after all, how could anything live this high up? Still, there was something she had to do. She walked up beside the assassin and cleared her throat. When he didn't look her way she coughed again, but still got no response. That was how it would be, huh? She should have figured.

"Uhm…" she started. "I just wanted to, uh… thank you? For saving me?"

The assassin was silent.

"I just, I'd be dead if it weren't for you, so you're good in my books. Thanks."

The assassin nodded, but still refused to look the thief in her eyes. They kept walking in silence.

After another minute of travel the storm abruptly stopped. There was nowhere else to go. They had reached the peak. The mage slowly made walked through the group, laying gloved hands on people, slowly but gently closing their wounds. The Nightingale and the Harbinger looked about in awe, the Harbinger letting out a titanic yawp, bellowing out at the rest of Tamriel below her feet and waving her massive axe above her head.

A roar answered her back. A pale green-scaled dragon swooped past and landed thunderously on the ruins of a Nordic word wall, partially covered in snow and worn away by time and the elements. The assassin drew his blade and the nightingale had an arrow nocked to her bow, but the mage remained calm, and the Dragonborn walked forward with arms wide.

"Drem yol lok," he greeted the dragon. "Paarthurnax, why have you summoned me here?"

"Paarthurnax is a dragon?" shouted the Harbinger in shock. "By Ysmir's beard! That might've been useful to know!"

The Dragonborn said, "It's a closely guarded secret. I wasn't about to betray the trust of the Greybeards on a whim."

"Yeah, that _would_ make sense," the Nightingale chimed in, "except you just brought us right to him anyway."

"Oh, right." the man said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Oops."

"Drem yol lok, Dovahkiin," rumbled Paarthurnax. "It is good to see you, especially at this time. Hahvoth fiit hah. Concern gnaws at my mind. The Tiid-Ahraan - the Time Wound, it is acting… strangely. From it I can sense Dovglimrel. The energy of a Dov. And it is powerful. Aalkos rinid Alduin. Perhaps as powerful as Alduin was. The Kelle - they work strangely. I fear Alduin may return, some kenlok – some loop in time, not simply a tear through which he was flung…"

"No," said the Dragonborn grimly. His face, which had been open and kind, was now dark and angry. "I killed him in Sovngarde."

"Geh. Yes, you told me this. But you admitted that you did not devour his sil - his soul. And now I worry that he returns."

"Wait, what?" said the Nightingale. "This isn't making any sense. You mean Alduin, the World-Eater? I thought he was just a myth?" Nobody replied.

"Then what do we do?" the Dragonborn asked.

"Krosis. I know not the answer for this diron - this problem."

"I might," said the mage. "Dragonborn. Do you have the scroll?"

"Yes, I brought it. It's pure luck though, I thought I had taken it from my pack last time I returned home."

"Excellent. I need you to read it. Look back through the Time-Wound. See what is coming."

"What? I thought you said you had a solution," said the Harbinger.

"I may, but I need more information. The Dragonborn is the only one capable of reading this scroll safely, and in order to form a plan we need as much information as we can get. Dovahkiin. Read it."

"Alright. Everyone, brace yourselves. Things can get… dangerous with the scrolls."

The Dragonborn drew a long bundle from his pack and unwrapped it. He took from it the long golden form of the scroll. Standing squarely in the wound, the Dragonborn drew down the page, and everyone disappeared.

Paarthurnax sat for a moment, shocked. "Shir bormah."

...

Everyone stood completely frozen for a moment before the Nightingale asked, "Wait, was that supposed to happen?"

"No," said the mage.

"Well, where in Oblivion are we?" asked the Harbinger. "The past?"

"If we were in the past we'd still be on the mountain, idiot," said the Nightingale.

"These ruins seem more Ayleid than Nordic or maybe some sort of fusion…" said the mage, gazing about.

"Um… We seem to have company said the Dragonborn, gesturing to an elderly snow haired elf and the young boy standing with her. Both had gaping mouths and wide eyes.

Then the boy looked to the elf and laughed, saying "Nice trick Lujanne, I almost thought they were real for a second. Seriously, where do you come up with these illusions?" He walked forward, "I swear I could almost touch them," he said, laying his hand on the Dragonborn, who smirked and crossed his arms. "…Oh."

* * *

**Hey, you made it! Congrats! Please, I would love to hear what you have to say! Anything! Please! I'm practically begging you here! Anyway I hope you liked it, even if it was light on the, y'know, crossover stuff. Still, it's a promising start, I hope. I want to do more. So, who knows? Honestly, with my track record probably not gonna get more than maybe another chapter or two over the course of the next five to sixty years.**


End file.
